


the end of all things

by aristotle



Category: Wolfenstein: The New Colossus
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strong Language, blazko is a wreck, fergus is a wreck too, mentions of amputation, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristotle/pseuds/aristotle
Summary: Billy didn’t sleep much.Not that anyone protested much anymore. Most knew better than to meddle in the very scarce personal life of B.J. Blazkowicz. Others had simply gotten tired of him dismissing their concerns by saying “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” before taking off to walk about the ship for hours on end. The rest simply thought it was none of their business. Billy liked those guys the best.Fergus Reid, meanwhile, was the other side of the same coin.





	the end of all things

**Author's Note:**

> hello i cant believe theres no fic for this pairing. but be the change you wanna see in the world and all that. so here's some gay

Billy didn’t sleep much.

Not that anyone protested much anymore. Most knew better than to meddle in the very scarce personal life of B.J. Blazkowicz. Others had simply gotten tired of him dismissing their concerns by saying “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” before taking off to walk about the ship for hours on end. The rest simply thought it was none of their business. Billy liked those guys the best.

Fergus Reid, meanwhile, was the other side of the same coin.

He didn’t sleep much either. Not by choice, mind you; if he had the option, he’d probably spend a good portion of the day in a peaceful slumber, clutching his blankets with a knife under his mattress and a pistol under his pillow. Unfortunately, a certain revolutionary agenda had taken up most of his free time for more pressing matters. At the very least, his room was usually undisturbed and open for any sporadic napping he could cram into any given day.

Or at least, so was the case until the day he lost his arm.

Apparently, a pipe had burst during their run in with the Ausmerzer. His room had been coated in a thick layer of murky water, and what wasn’t soaked to the bone had been outright unsalvageable. It only took two days of him complaining about his back from sleeping in the sick bay before B.J. extended a hand.

“Just take my bed, Ferg. I’m just fine sleeping on the floor for a few nights.”

Fergus frowned as he continued to dredge through the soggy remains of his belongings. “And the lass?”

He rubbed the back of his head at that. “She’s sleeping in Caroline’s room.”

“Why?”

“We… don’t really sleep in the same bed much nowadays.”

Reid doesn’t pry. There are many, many things the man is right and ready to call the soldier on, but the troubles of love were not one of them.

They spend the next several hours taking what they can out of the room, hanging blankets and clothes up to dry in various spaces around the boat. Blazko disappears for a checkup with Set, and Fergus works for a few more hours before calling it a day and resigning himself to Blazko’s room.

He finds the cabin empty, half of the ship sinking into their familiar hum that settles once most of it’s inhabitants have gone to sleep. His gaze lingered over each photo on the wall, each sentimental piece of furniture placed throughout the small cabin.

He felt like he didn’t belong here.

Which he didn’t, he reminds himself. This is temporary. But Fergus was not a man to deprive himself of a night’s sleep, even if it meant dealing with the gushy surroundings of a romantic American.

“You still awake?”

He turned with a jolt, finding B.J. standing in the doorway of the cabin.

“Jesus, lad. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Blazko chuckles at that, stepping in and taking his place beside the commander.

“Need extra blankets? Pillows?”

“We’re at war, Blazko. I can do without the bullshit.”

“Sorry. I’m from Texas, hospitality is in my blood.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve picked up on it, and I’d gladly take a bullet to the head before some old American pity.”

“It’s not pity, Ferg—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Fergus waved him off. “Spare me the speech, Blazko.”

Before the conversation could continue, Blazkowicz took a step closer, and Fergus felt his face scowl by reflex. Something…

Something smelled.

 _Blazko_ smelled _._

“Fuckin’ hell, Blazko, when’s the last time you took that damned thing off?”

He rubbed the back of his head. “I, uh… haven’t.”

“Jesus, Blazko. Take a fucking shower.”

“I can’t.”

He averted his eyes when he answered, and Fergus frowned.

“And why not?”

“I’m… I’m afraid to.” He stepped away from Fergus. Blazko had a tendency to be a bit melodramatic when he was injured; he was so used to being this walking tank of a man, any chip in the armor could quickly become a crack without proper care. Normally Fergus allowed the others to deal with damage control. But he supposed he owed him at least this, after everything had been said and done.

“What?”

“I’m afraid, Fergus. I’m afraid… if I take this thing off I’ll fall apart.” Blazko sat down at the edge of his bed, still avoiding his commander’s gaze. “I’m afraid I won’t be the same person that got in the first time.”

Fergus rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fucks sake, Blazkowicz.”

Blazko watched as he quickly grabbed his bag and promptly walked out the door, momentarily thinking about what had just happened when his head popped back into the door frame.

“Well come on, then.”

There were few men Blazkowicz would follow with such blind loyalty.

Luckily for Fergus, he was one of them.

They stop in the locker rooms outside of the showers, where Fergus unceremoniously drops his bag onto a bench and detaches his arm.

“Whoa, Fergus, what’re you—”

“Come on, off with the armor.”

“I told you—”

“Blazko, don’t be thick with me. I have had my life on the line just as much as you have. I have been to hell and came out the other side guns blazing. You are not the only one who’s falling apart, Blazkowicz. You are not the only one who has had their lives ripped from them. We are all falling apart, lad. That doesn’t mean we quit moving. It means we pick up what’s left and soldier on until there’s nothing left to put together. Now take this damned suit off. You smell like the back end of the fucking pig.”

Blazkowicz stares at him for a while, meeting Fergus’ unwavering gaze. He can’t exactly tell what’s on his mind; for a moment he thinks the man might punch him in the face. Maybe just tackle him to the ground. It’s hard to tell with a man like Billy.

Instead, Blazko puts a hand on his shoulder and swallows, turning to his side and motioning to a latch on the nape of his neck.

“Here. Just… brace yourself. Odds are I’m gonna crumble to the floor the second this thing comes off.”

“Aye.” Fergus whispered softly as he fiddled with the latch, pulling back when he felt the mechanics in the suit retract with a short grunt from Blazko. It slid off of the large man quickly enough, his body slumping into Fergus’ waiting arms.

“Oi, Blazko…” he grunted as he helped the man into the showers and settled him against a bench. “… you weigh about as much as the damn pig, too.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

He quieted down at that. When he finally settled him down, helping him prop himself against the bench, he finally had the chance to see just how bad the man’s state was. Blazko was dirty; disgustingly so. There was dried blood stuck to his skin, wounds and bruises that haven’t had time to heal.

“Fuckin’ hell, Blazko.” Fergus made quick work of his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before turning the water on. He figured one more article of clothing to air dry won’t kill him.

Blazkowicz winced at the water initially, to which Fergus blocked the stream until the water had warmed up.

“Turn around.”

“Why?”

“I reckon you can’t scrub your own damn back, and I’m sure as hell not sleeping with your rear end smelling like Satan’s bloody arse.”

He laughed, softly, and gave Fergus his back.

Fergus smiled, a tug at the corner of his lip, and wet a rag underneath the nozzle. He sat beside Blazko, straddling the bench to give him better access to his back, and began scrubbing at the dirt, sweat, and blood that had formed a layer over the man’s skin. There was silence between them for a few minutes as he cleaned the wide expanse of his back, a gentler touch than Blazko would’ve imagined from the man. Blazko let himself relax slightly, breathing slowly as Fergus cleaned him up.

He couldn’t tell from his position, but Fergus was lost in thought.

It had been a long time since Fergus met Blazkowicz. Longer for him than it had been Blazko himself. They’d been to hell and back together, and still found themselves in the same situation time and time again. Yet now, for the first time, Fergus was experiencing a first in his relationship with Billy.

Blazko was a tank. He was Terror-Billy. He was the walking, talking Nazi killer.

But at that moment, he was none of these things. At this moment, Fergus watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way he winced at each breath like living itself was tearing him apart, and did not see a legend. He saw Billy Blazkowicz.

And he was hurting.

“Turn around.”

Blazko glanced over his shoulder, a questioning look on his face. Fergus rolled his eyes.

“Come on then, I have to get your front too.”

“I can wash my own chest, Fergus.”

“ _Clearly_ not.”

“I’m not a child.”

Fergus grunted. “Blazko, god dammit, just…” he stood up, moving to sit in front of him this time. “Let me help you, god dammit. Let someone fucking help you.”

He fell silent at that. Fergus could see him gritting his teeth as he, as was the course for Blazkowicz, averted his gaze. Fergus watched quietly, sighing after a few moments and moving to get up. The resounding silence was more than enough indication that this entire thing was a mistake.

Billy grabbed his wrist before he could leave. Even as he pulled back, he dared not meet Fergus’ eyes. No words were said; not that Fergus needed any. He sat back down, settling in front of him again before he tentatively moved to clean his neck.

From the front, Fergus was able to get a much closer look at what terrible shape Blazko was in. His torso was covered in surgery scars that hadn’t had time to heal, his stomach divided like a jigsaw puzzle that’d been haphazardly glued together. He breathed slowly, and with every rise of his chest Fergus silently felt his heart race at the memory of seeing these wounds fresh. He remembers seeing him torn open, the color fading from his face, his eyes fluttering open and closed, like he was barely there, like he couldn’t quite differentiate the waking world and the fiery depths of hell he’d been condemned to. He pulled the rag against Blazko’s broad chest, slowing over his heart. The slow thrum beneath his fingertips made his hand tremble, and he stopped, letting the rag fall into Billy’s lap and smoothing his palm over his pectoral and letting himself savor the sensation. The sensation that Billy Blazkowicz alive, holding onto this evidence that he was here.

His voice trembled as he spoke.

“We have been through too fucking much for you to fall apart on me now, Blazkowicz.”

Blazko looked up, and Fergus looked away this time, letting the stream of water hit his face to conceal the tears forming against his own better judgement.

“Fergus, I—”

“Shut up. Shut up, Blazkowicz. Just… fucking hell.”

Fergus turned away, biting the inside of his cheek in anger when he suddenly felt something against his chest. He turned, suddenly, to the sight of Blazko quietly cleaning his torso. He said nothing for a moment, processing the action before Blazkowicz chuckled, a deep sound that pulsed from the center of his chest.

“Look at us.” He spoke softly, wiping Fergus’ neck clean with a gentle hand. “Nothing but two bags of bones now, aren’t we?”

Fergus gave a halfhearted smile.

“Aye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For just… not being stronger, I guess.”

“That’s bullshit, Blazkowicz. This has nothing to do with you being strong enough. I know you and everyone else on this fucking boat like to pretend you’re some Nazi-killing god among men, but I’ve known you for nearly twenty-five god damned years, and seen you hurting more than enough to know you’re not. This isn’t about being strong, Blazko. It’s about letting yourself be weak sometimes, you idiot.”

Blazkowicz said nothing for a long time, doing nothing but scrubbing dirt off of Fergus’ shoulders and chest. He doesn’t know what to say at this point, only focusing on his breathing to calm his nerves. Every time his fingers brush his skin, Fergus feels a spark of anxiety in his stomach. Or maybe it’s fear.

Or something else he can’t place. He can’t be certain.

“Say something, for fuck’s sake. I hate it when you make that face and go quiet.”

“You’re right.”

“What?”

“You’re right.” He put the rag down, taking a long exhale before pulling back. “I don’t like… feeling useless. I feel like I can’t stop moving anymore, like if I sit down I won’t be able to stand back up. I’m…”

He played with his hands, like he was unsure of what to do with them, before settling them in his lap.

“… I’m dying, Fergus. I’m fucking dying and I don’t know what to do but keep moving until I can’t anymore.”

Fergus leaned in and grabbed the nape of his neck, something Blazko had come to recognize as a symbol of comfort.

“You are not dying.”

“Fergus, I’m not being dramatic, my body, its—”

He pulled Billy closer.

“Shut up, Blazko. You are not dying. You are not allowed to die until you finish what you fucking started. You hear me? You are not allowed to die until there isn’t a god damned Nazi left on this hell-fucked Earth, alright?”

Blazko smiled softly, looking away for a moment before meeting Fergus’ eyes.

“Alright. Alright, yeah.”

Fergus didn’t pull away. His fingers spread over Blazko’s nape, and he quietly pressed their foreheads together. Blazko didn’t interrupt, only looked to his face. His eyes were closed, and the still stream of water had stuck his hair to his forehead.

“Fourteen years, Blazkowicz.”

“What?”

“I waited fourteen years for you to come back, you fucking idiot. I waited fourteen… fourteen fucking years.”

“Fergus—”

“You will not die on me again, you hear me Blazko? You will not fucking—”

“Fergus. Fergus, I’m here.” Blazkowicz pulled back from the embrace, cupping Fergus’ face in his hands. “I’m right here, Ferg. I’m not going anywhere.”

Fergus puts his hand on Blazko’s chest and opens his eyes, meeting his gaze and letting out a trembling breath.

“You’re the only one I have left.”

Then Billy kisses him.

It’s a quick, chaste kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. He pulls back, just enough to see the other man’s reaction, and instead finds Fergus following the kiss.

So he keeps kissing him.

He runs a hand through his hair, wet and warm, and he kisses him.

He pulls him into his lap, his size easily dwarfing the other, and he kisses him.

He holds Fergus, the last remnant of hope he has left, the first man he knew he’d follow straight into hell, and he kisses him.

And suddenly, Billy does not fear falling apart.

So long as someone is there to pick up the pieces.


End file.
